


Different Devils

by mcicioni



Category: Per qualche dollaro in più | For A Few Dollars More (1965)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, almost gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11279832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: Two key moments inFor a Few Dollars More, from the perspective of a very minor character, who in the film has neither a name nor a history; another take on "the mystery of the purloined watch".





	Different Devils

Rico steps out of his house and walks towards his family’s apple tree. His mother told him to get a dozen apples that she can stew for supper, with some tiny pieces of pork rind. Apples can be eaten raw or cooked, and can be swapped for a bit of meat or cheese or even for a little wool, after negotiations with the families lucky enough to have sheep or goats.

Rico’s mother only has that tree, a small vegetable garden, half a dozen chickens and three children. Last year they had two cows. And Rico’s father was alive.

Rico’s house is the last one in Agua Caliente, near the fountain; to get to the tree Rico has to cross the only street. But he can’t – the street is blocked by three of the village’s men, carrying handguns. At the other end, there’s just one man, a tall _gringo_ with a battered hat and an old brown poncho, an unlit cigar in his mouth. And a little behind this man, just outside the village, there are a dozen others. Indio’s men, _bandidos_. _Diablos_ , the people of Agua Caliente call them, devils.

The _gringo_ lights his cigar, looks at the three men and strolls towards them. Rico briefly wonders if he’s the new leader of the devils. But Indio is still alive, standing by his horse, with the same half-grin he had the last time he came here, a year ago. He was grinning when he called out Rico’s father and old Juan, asked them if it was true that they had gone to the _rurales_ to get help against him, then showed them a watch that played a tune, and told them that when the tune was over they had to run for their lives. And just before the tune was over he shot both of them, through the head. And then he laughed, a loud devilish laughter, and shot their family’s two cows and Juan’s mule, just for fun.

The three men move a few steps towards the _gringo_ , and he stops and flips his poncho over his shoulder, showing a gunbelt. Rico would like to forget about the apples and run back home. But he can’t. He’s the eldest child, he’s nearly eleven, his mother counts on him. And Fernando would laugh at him for days on end. Fernando is fourteen, almost a man, and Rico wants his respect more than anything else in the world. So he grabs a stick, dashes across the street as fast as he can, and starts jumping wildly, hitting the lowest branches, hoping that the apples will fall quickly.

A shot is fired from where the _gringo_ is standing, and an apple falls right beside Rico, quickly followed by two more. Then a series of other shots come, different from the first three, faster and sharper, from the little balcony on top of the tavern. Crouching at the bottom of the tree, his heart thumping wildly, Rico sees half a dozen apples fall, swift and precise, almost into his upturned hat. He grabs them all, fills his hat with them and flees. On the balcony he could glimpse another _gringo_ , tall, slim and dressed in black, with a black hat, and a pistol that’s bigger and longer than any of the pistols Rico has ever seen. Another devil? A real devil? The three men from Agua Caliente retreat and disappear. The man in black smiles at the man in the poncho, who glares at him and mutters “Bravo” within clenched teeth; it wasn’t a game, it was a trial of strength, like arm-wrestling. And the man in black won. After supper Rico must find Fernando, tell him everything he has seen, and together they can try to figure it all out.

 

Indio and his men settle in Agua Caliente. They take the largest house, near the stables, kick out Bernardo and his family, and order food and _aguardiente_. Some of them are _gringos_ and order people around in English; it makes no difference, Agua Caliente is a border village, everyone speaks and understands both languages. They tell everyone to stay inside their houses, because they have important work to do. All that the people find out is that there’s a large iron chest locked up in the granary, and it will stay there for a whole month, and so will the devils. And they will expect to be fed twice a day, and the village people will starve.

That night something bad happens. Indio’s men form a circle, and the two _gringos_ who shot at the apples are in the middle, and the _bandidos_ are hitting and kicking them. Rico, Fernando and three other boys are watching, on a roof, behind a low parapet.The _gringos_ fight back fearlessly, but they’re two against ten, and they’re dragged away unconscious. Rico and his friends creep back to their houses, their hearts heavy. Rico lies down on his pallet; his mother and the other two kids are fast asleep, and none of them stirs. Until they hear a number of shots and curses, and suddenly the _bandidos_ are rushing out of Agua Caliente. Searching for two men who have managed to escape.

 

It’s nearly morning. Rico has tried to keep awake, but the day has been long and eventful, and he’s exhausted. Just when he is beginning to drift off, he hears soft, cautious steps near his house: two kinds of boots, two different men. He gets up without making any noise and crouches behind the half-open shutter. 

They are walking towards the fountain; the man in the poncho is moving stiffly, the man in black is limping a little and rubbing his jaw.

At the fountain, they stop. The man in the poncho sits down, takes his hat off, runs a hand through his thick pale-brown hair. There’s just enough light for Rico to see a bruise on a cheekbone, blood stains in his hair and on his neck. The man in black takes a big white handkerchief out of a pocket, dips it in the water and bends a little towards the other man: “Hold still,” he says, and starts swabbing his face.

His hands are as gentle as Rico’s mother’s when she cleans skinned knees or cut fingers. But there’s something else. He’s looking at the other man the way men and women sometimes look at each other. The way Fernando sometimes looks at girls. Rico never thought that men could look at other men that way. Until now. 

Eyes still locked into his companion’s, the man in black cups a hand on the back of his neck and leaves it there, fingers moving lightly among the thick, untidy hair. And Rico feels something tightening between his legs, and it’s scary and wonderful, and he wonders if _that_ also would happen if Fernando ever _looked_ at him or stroked the back of his neck.

The man in the poncho looks back – no, he _looks_ back, and lifts a hand, and his fingertips brush over a thin streak of dried blood near the other man’s temple, and the other man leans into the touch and makes a small noise of pleasure. Then he shakes his head with a little smile, steps away, takes off his jacket and unhooks something from his vest, a gold chain with a big watch attached to it. He places this on top of the vest, goes back to the fountain, wets his handkerchief and cleans his face. Then he loosens his tie and cleans his neck, and even tidies up his thinning hair.

“Ain’t you goin to shave?” The voice of the man in the poncho is mocking, but it’s also warm: Rico remembers the times when his father teased his mother about her cooking. He helps his companion into his jacket, hands him the chain and the watch, straightens up his vest, gives his stomach a couple of friendly pats and inspects him from head to foot. “Lookin good, Colonel.” And then he suddenly stumbles and loses his balance, grunting with pain as his head hits the edge of the fountain.

The other man helps him to his feet. “As if Indio’s men hadn’t done enough,” he mutters, probing the new injury with his surprisingly gentle fingers.

“Thanks,” the man in the poncho whispers, holding on to him for one long moment while he struggles to his feet. He steadies himself, sticks his left hand into the pocket of his trousers and takes a couple of wobbly steps.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

As they move a little further along the street, the man in black takes out his long, scary pistol, and the other man adjusts his poncho, turns in the direction of Rico’s window, and, quick as lightning, winks. A fraction of a moment, then he sits down on a chair in the street and concentrates on putting bullets into his gun. The man in black leans against a wall, deep in thought.

A few shadows are beginning to scuttle at both ends of the street. The two men look at each other. “Leave Indio to me,” the man in black says, very simply, very softly, and Rico shivers from head to toe.

A cuff on the back of his head makes him jump. “What are you doing, you stupid boy?” His mother pushes him towards the bed, firmly closing the wooden shutters. “Spying on the _gringos_ , they would have shot you if they’d seen you.”

“Not these two _gringos_. I hope they win.”

“ _Que Dios me perdone_ , I hope that nobody wins, that they all kill one another and leave us alone.”

 

The two _gringos_ won: they’re both alive, and Indio and his men are all dead, and the people of Agua Caliente will never know exactly why. Nobody saw what happened in the old square at the back of the village. There are no thanks or goodbyes: the man in black rode off on his own as the sun was setting, and the other man is about to leave on Bernardo’s cart, with all the dead men piled up on it. Are he and the man in black going to meet soon? Rico is not sure why he hopes so, but he does. From the window of his house, he gives the man with the poncho a little wave; the man winks again, lips quirking in a tiny smile, and sets out in the same direction as the man in black.

The women start cleaning up, and the men and boys collect whatever belonged to the dead _bandidos_ : blankets, coats, hats, gunbelts. 

“The two _gringos_ weren’t devils,” Rico whispers to Fernando.

“ _Different_ devils,” Fernando corrects him. “They killed eleven men. They did it for money, not to help us.”

Rico stares ahead. “Maybe,” he mutters. “I still wish them luck. Especially the one dressed in black.”

“Why him?” Fernando laughs, and briefly ruffles his hair, and Rico feels that tightening between his legs, and a part of him is thrilled, and another part wants to find out what else can happen, and another part is terrified. Maybe this feeling will go away. Maybe not. Maybe one day Fernando will _look_ at him. Maybe never. All he can do is wait.

“Because he hasn’t got a watch any more. I think that his friend stole it.”

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks to Timberwolfoz, for proofreading at very short notice and in a genre she does not enjoy, and to Linda and Kees, for americanisms. Thanks also to Sybilius for early-morning and late-night discussions on Monco and Mortimer.


End file.
